To Fight
by ofLadyTauriel
Summary: Sherlock can't bring himself to fight for John Watson.


**Author's Notes: I've always had extreme _The Sign of Three_ feels. Thanks to Tawni for beta-ing my work!**

If there is one thing Sherlock isn't, it is a soldier. He can be a consulting detective, a scientist, a genius, a highly-functioning sociopath, a _machine_, a boxer and martial artist, even, and a friend to Dr. John Watson. He can track down terrorists, running through the cold clutches of European night air without stop, taking beatings in camps; anything for the safety of the people who matter most to him. It is not natural to him, however, to oversee the death of the men who are a threat to his friends' life. But he has to, or watch danger return with him to London. Anything for John Watson, _anything_, but he does not let himself be a puppet under Mycroft's governing, all-powerful hand. He is not a soldier.

Murders, crime scenes, criminals, psychopaths. They range across a full spectrum of danger; something an ordinary, boring man would never associate himself with. Obviously, it is life-threatening to following the lead of a murderer, someone who caused the death of the mutilated body in front of Sherlock. But danger is not what his blood chases. It is not for what it sings.

It is only his mind, for the longest time, that spikes eagerness within him, a need to challenge it playfully yet methodically for a temporary distraction from its self-destructive tendencies. Sherlock eases into the niche of the crime, but emotionally remains on the periphery. A wallflower to the action, because he wants to remain so. _Don't get involved, Sherlock._ And he doesn't.

He watches John be the army doctor, the human, the friend, the comforter. He watches him become emotionally involved in the case at hand, feel the sadness of the parents, the siblings, the spouses, the lovers. He sees his anger and frustration at the criminals and confusion at why he couldn't save a life. The primal human emotions are written plainly across his features.

John Watson's face, full of expression, determination, and humanity, is as moving as the sand dunes of the dry desert, like those found in Afghanistan - the very heart of where he first accepted the weight of being a soldier upon his shoulders.

Sherlock thinks fighting is uninteresting, plain, wasteful, violent. It is the equivalent to getting his hands dirty. He does not have the need, when he is able to hide them behind latex gloves. Similarly, he keeps his heart stored behind his brilliant mind.

Fighting is even less than that. It is _boring_.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked, both reading the lines and seeing between them in John Watson's open book. A soldier. Boring. Or so he thought.

John Watson - the army doctor, the human, the friend, the comforter, and the steady shot that saves Sherlock's life without hesitation on their first day of acquaintance - is not boring. He is anything but.

John Watson redefines the meaning of being a soldier in Sherlock's mind, illuminates the importance of saving a life, and defines the meaning of friendship and loyalty. John redefines Sherlock, his every action becoming a tilt in the chaos of Sherlock's tumultuous universe.

Sherlock watches John be an extraordinary man in ordinary deeds. When someone is hurt, his hands are streaked with the blood that he fails to stop, as it pulls the life out of the dying. When someone is dead, directed towards the grieving are John's nonsensical, soothing words and soft voice. They are like a flitting melody, someone throwing pebbles on the other side of the slow stream.

It is John who turns his face away from wasted life, towards which Sherlock walk unabashedly, devoid of emotion. But it is John who craves the danger that seeps the shakiness out of his hands. There is the calculated accuracy of his shot and the loyalty to Sherlock that puts John in the line of fire of any criminal that wishes to hurt the detective.

Sherlock is a danger to John Watson.

_Into battle._ If the circumstances are reversed, John Watson will dive with heart and soul into any battle, to protect Sherlock or, in this case, support him in something as important as this. Not that a wedding is awaiting on the list of important events in Sherlock's future.

_Into battle._ John Watson will be prepared. Sherlock is not.

John Watson - his flatmate, his colleague, his friend. The tumultuous tilt of his already chaotic universe, the redefinition of friendship, loyalty, _love_, marrying the woman he loves. Sherlock should be content.

Sherlock... is not. Every genuine smile, every conversation, every case after Sherlock's shattering return still leaves him feeling like his stomach is a jar full of trapped butterflies. However, John's eyes are now shining for another, a concept which is Sherlock finds surprisingly difficult for even his exceptional mind to compute.

Being the best man for John Watson is a battle, and being content is a strategy that Sherlock has no idea how to employ. It seems almost impossible.

_I will solve your murder, but it takes John Watson to save your life._

John, going into danger, calm in the face of death, collected in the face of emergency. Going willingly, to be the protector of not only friends and family, but also of unknown, innocent strangers, whose lives he knows he can save. John, who will be able to stand with Sherlock at the edge of the Earth, which happens to be round and have no edges, but none of this matters, because only John Watson does, _John_, the brave soldier who is never afraid of compassion and _responsibility_ that Sherlock cannot find within his rusty heart. It has been long since he used it so actively.

_Don't get involved._

Too late. The battle has already begun.

The wedding is a flurry of practised formalities, an onrush of greetings, fake smiles, and best wishes. All to John, who gracefully accepts with repeated thanks the offerings from even the most distant of friends. And to Mary, who peacefully watches Sherlock, stranded and flailing, in the onslaught of humanity that he has chosen to embrace in his life with John Watson. _Into battle._ Embracing humanity itself feels like a losing battle, but one Sherlock will endure for John. John stands like a veteran soldier that he is, while Sherlock is out of his element. All that grounds him is John Watson's acceptance. What will Sherlock not do for such open-armed acceptance?

Sherlock understands the emotions of pain, heartbreak, grief, devotion. They hover on the periphery of his mind's landscape, but they are like the sinking torpedoes on the deep end, while he is not ready to leave shallow waters. They are out of his reach, and he does not reach out for them. He does not analyse them. He knows that he is capable, but the darkness of the deep push him backwards into the light. It is clear again, but like always, only temporarily.

The melody of the waltz he pulls out with every long stroke of his bow is rehearsed, but it feels like he is once again in his room, composing for John and Mary. It is like pulling a beautiful starfish out of its hiding in the wet sand only to place it back where it is visible, or spotting a growing flower on the top of a hill, that is too fresh and alive to die in a human home or murderous vase. It is like resisting to catch the sparrow that sings the song of freedom, so beautiful that the meaning and vitality of the words are lost in the _need_ to have the melody in your heart.

The violin sings the song of Sherlock's drowning heart. He has waded too deep, and no one is there to pull him with a rough clasp of a hand. He must learn to swim, but he is struggling.

It is a staggering thought, that there is a sheer depth of his feelings for John, that threatens to pull Sherlock down and never let go.

_I remember she left early. I mean, who leaves a wedding early?_

Someone who is afraid of facing their enemy on the battlefront. John Watson, the bravest, kindest, and wisest man, will stay standing until the weight of his body could no longer be supported by weakened legs. John will march without weakness to face his greatest enemy at Sherlock's side.

Sherlock cowers in the light of his fading smile, of Mary's silent thank you. She knows, she must know. Not even a blind man has missed the words that he slowly delivered in his best man's speech from the chambers and hollows of the heart. Sherlock cannot believe the heart once only held an anatomical meaning for him, and was an organ to inspect from any body found in the morgue.

He is fighting again. Every second he spends here is a heart string being pulled, and it is almost unbearable. Music, laughter, and dancing surrounds him on all sides, and he is thankful. It drowns out the sounds of violin screeches as the bow tries to play over the broken strings. Who knew heart strings were so like those of a violin?

Sherlock Holmes is not a soldier. No matter Mycroft's intentions, he is neither a tool in his game to rid the world and the protected London of assassins, nor one of the guardian angels that protects the human race from implementing its own destruction. No, Sherlock is neither an assassin nor an angel, not a man driven by righteousness and justice. It is the need to protect the man be loves that pushes Sherlock to become a better person, to attempt to experience the inner workings of John's own heart by fighting an internal battle to become a better man. For John, will he fight?

The elated freedom in John's eyes that spark for Mary show Sherlock that the fight is over.

_I remember she left the wedding early. I mean, who leaves the wedding early?_

The air is cold outside, the music from the building muted. An onrush of thoughts, fleeting through his mind, but he brushes them aside with the twitch of his fingers, gloved at his side. The sway of bodies leaves behind is the battle front. The contentment and satisfaction is unreachable, and fe only mind, body, and soul that he finds tantalising - _Goodbye, John_ - sings at the touch of another.

_Into battle._ Is there anything left fighting for?


End file.
